Sweet
by Turtle.Prince
Summary: Because Hibari Kyouya was not at all a sweet person. -8018
1. Sweet

**A/N **: A story of short drabbles for 8O18.... That had the potential of going _somewhere_, but got lost, and ended up here. :)

Disclaimer : I don't own 8018, blahblahblah. They don't belong to me - _no_. They belong to each other - _no_. They **were made for one another. **:D

...

**Confession**

You can't help it. Can't help, _but_ feel this way towards him. You think you have to tell him. Because it's only fair. Because he deserves to know. Because you don't want to keep it to yourself anymore. Because it becomes almost a heavy burden, weighing down on your heart. You don't want to keep it bottled up. Don't want it to be a 'too late.' Don't want to be filled with regret later on in life.

A life without him...

Because you knew that once those words left your lips, they would already be the end of you.

**Kisses**

Aggressive.

That was what you would've described his kisses. All those times practicing in front of your mirror, _with_ your mirror, with your hand. Your pillow. That weird stuffed animal you won at a festival. Those times spent fantasizing about what kissing him would be like... The thought of 'gentle like the touch of an angel' never crossing your mind.

Instead, they were more on the aggressive side. Wild. With bruises. The outcome to be a few scratches and unexplainable bite marks here and there. Like how he fought. How he did everything. To him fighting was what he breathed, embedded into the very _existence_ of his being. Because that was who he was. How he dealt with things.

Kissing... shouldn't be any different, right?

**Naughty**

'I'll bite you to death.'

It's moments like this when you're lying on his carpet - bruises forming all over and deep scratches all over your face - that you don't think of him as the _'threatening'_ type.

And if you were any other person, it would only be _logical_ for you to plan an escape way, to get out of here - to stay _alive_. But those thoughts don't cross your mind. No, all that you're thinking about right now was just how _naughty_ he was. Because you don't mind getting bitten to death if it was coming from him. Because you plan to see for your own eyes - just _how_ he was going to _'bite you to death.' _

Because _he_ might be _naughty _(and decide to _really_ beat you to death), but he's forgetting that _you're_ a _masochist_.

**Tutor**

Dino Cavallone. "The Bucking Horse." Capable of controlling more than 5,000 families under him, was a looker, a respected boss of the Cavallone family. But _incapable_ of doing any of this without one of his subordinates around. But despite this, you feel respect for him. His skills amazes you. He truly was an amazing person.

But it's in your own time. Your own privacy that you can't help but feel a _teeny, tiny_ bit jealous.

Jealous when he puts his arm around Kyouya. When he calls him by his given name. When he ruffles the coarse black hair. When he smiles and holds onto him - without getting much as a punch. ...Well, sometimes. When he can make Kyouya's bored expression suddenly change into one of sparked interest. With a hint of a smile. And there were times when you just think of him as Kyouya's tutor, just a mere mentor. With nothing attached.

But then... there were times when you start thinking on _the other side _of things. It's when you're by yourself, when you're nowhere near company - that you wonder why you can't do that. Why you can't touch him like that. Why you can't call him by his name. Why you can't make him smile, _just a tiny bit_.

**Umbrella**

You're not suicidal. You _know_ you're not. Save for that one time, but that was a long time ago. You might be _crazy_ and you guess you truly _are_ an _idiot._ But you're not _crazy enough _to be placed in a mental asylum. Not _idiotic enough_ to be considered the biggest idiot on the face of this earth.

So... why?

Why are you standing in the rain? When it's storming. Without an umbrella. And not even a jacket on; just a simple buttoned down white shirt that was _sticking_ to your skin and black slacks that seem to be weighing you down even more. Your shoes are filled with water and you think it'll take a _long_ time for your socks to get dry. You think you're suffocating them. And you feel sorry for them.

But...

'It feels nice...' You find yourself mumbling as you close your eyes, tilting your head back and letting the rain fall on you. Letting it soak through you. It's suppose to be able to calm a person, right? Because it's the rain that washes away everything - because it's _suppose _to be able to wash away your doubts, your worries, your problems.

_Your feelings for Kyouya._

You feel silly. Standing in the rain, on the rainiest day of the year. But _because_ it's the rainiest day of the year that you're standing there. Like an idiot not ready to die, but not really wanting to live either. But, that's not exactly true, is it?

'Yamamoto Takeshi...'

Are the angels calling your name already? You laugh at the thought, almost saying it out loud. Your eyes open and you're staring at him. Standing there in front of you. You start to wonder why he was there. Why was he wearing only a short sleeved shirt? Usually he'd have his jacket with him. You're ready to scold him for going out in such weather without wearing his jacket.

No, he shouldn't even be out here in the first place. It was storming.

But then you think about your own situation. And you feel stupid again. So you laugh at yourself. You try to give him a small smile, a small greeting. But you stop because you think it looks like he's crying. But, that was just the rain, right? And he's running at you. And you think of how he runs when he's ready to attack. You expect a punch. Maybe a few kicks and bruises that wouldn't heal for weeks.

But he's hugging you.

(And you could imagine how hard it was for him to do it because you were so much taller compared to him.) You wonder what's gotten into him. Was he soaked in the rain too long? No, it was most likely you. And as you ready to wrap your arms around him, he suddenly punches you. Ouch. And you think to yourself _'Ah, there's that punch.'_ You think you really deserve that. You sit up, rubbing the small bruise.

You're staring at the water that has collected on the ground.

And it makes you wonder if these were his tears that he had been holding back as his arms tighten around you.

**Sweet**

You'd never expect _Hibari Kyouya_, of all people, to like _chocolate_. Or sweets, in general. Somehow he didn't look like the chocolate-sweets eating type. Even though it looks like he's _really_ liking the chocolate treats you made for him - because he said store made are nasty and lacked in quality - you still can't bring yourself to believe it.

Maybe you're just too deep in the phrase 'You are what you eat.' Because _Hibari Kyouya_ was _not at all_ a sweet person.

But as you're leaning across the table, your lips connecting with his while his eyes widen in shock, and your tongue's licking the remains of the chocolate on his lips - you can't help but think that Hibari Kyouya really _was_, in some way, _very sweet_.

**Complaints**

Everyone has habits. They are classified as either good or bad. Like washing your hair every 1-2 days with the same shampoo - and always in the same order. It would always just be _that shampoo _and nothing else. And then there were bad habits. Those were the ones you just _can't_ stand. Habits like watching tv too close or being distracted by something far too long were okay with you. But habits like _biting one's nails_ really... irked you. And then there were the _extremely _bad ones that you just _hate_. Like the smell of cigarettes or beer. (Also people who don't bathe.)

But, is being a picky eater a bad habit?

Hibari Kyouya was a picky eater, you knew that. Probably the worst.

Let's use soup for example. He didn't like it if his soup was too hot. Too warm. Too cold. Too cool. Too _dry_, which you thought was impossible... But coming from his mouth, about anything he says is right. Because, well, he said it. It had to _just perfect_. Like him. Like he said, 'I will not put anything into my mouth that is dirty.'

So when he called you up to tell you to come over to his house at _1_ in the morning to cook him something to eat, you really... _what'stheword_.

On a regular basis, you would make him a small bentou or something or the sort - because, well, you had the time and put in effort to make it. _But this was in the middle of the freakin' night. _And you're not usually the nervous type. But... standing there in the kitchen at 1 in the morning in nothing but blue boxers (because you didn't have time to change since he only gave you a limited amount of time to get there) while a very sleepy, not to mention, very_ hungry_ Kyouya is eying you like a hawk ready to strike... yeah, you can't _help_ but be nervous.

And while he's ordering you to cook while he lazily look like he's going to doze off, you make the quickest thing that comes to your mind - lettuce wrap. In your head, you really don't care right now. You just want him to eat something and then go back to bed and _not kill you_. Anything you make would be fine, right? Since he didn't specify anything...

And he _was_ kinda dozing off, so it's okay.

But maybe it's just the way he looked when you suddenly put it in front of him. When you don't even wait for him to eat first because you're kinda tired and you want to satisfy _your _own hunger. Or maybe it was the way he suddenly grabbed your hand that was holding the lettuce wrap and, staring at you with unblinkingly with his serious not-so-sleepy-anymore eyes, placing his mouth over it - (his tongue running over parts of your fingers. Almost _cleaning_ it. And then chewing contently like nothing happened.) - that you feel, yes, this really _was_ a bad habit.

...But you're not complaining.

**Cute**

There were many things that would be considered 'cute.' Like girls, flowers, odd-shaped cookies ...or socks.

But to you, 'cute' is when he's wearing your shirt, a few sizes too big for him, water dripping from the ends of his hair - his cheeks adorning a hint of a flush from the hot shower. When he's sitting next to you and his hair _smells just like you_. 'Cute' is when he swats your hand away when you're trying to pet him. To get him to let you brush his hair.

'Cute' is when his mouth forms in almost a pout - when he's denied something. When he makes that angry face of his, his brows coming together. When there's that small crease in the middle of his forehead. When he's rolling around with you on the ground, wrestling with you, tackling and biting - ready to fight you to the death for that kanpachi in your hand. 'Cute' is when you're lying there on your floor, locked between his knees, panting from the 'wrestling match' while he smirks in triumph when he has the kanpachi in his hand.

To you, 'cute' is when you're laughing at his clumsy chopsticks skill and he doesn't poke your eyes out with them. Because you knew that whatever it was he had in his hands, he might as well could turn it into a deadly weapon. It's when he's watching tv or playing on your PlayStation and doesn't give a damn if there was a tornado outside. When you secretly lift him into your lap because it seem like paying attention to the screen was his only purpose now.

Because he _had_ to get to the next level. Because he _had_ to slay all the dragons and trolls that were keeping him from getting to the final stage.

'Cute' is when he's rolling to your side of the bed (even if he created a barricade of pillows between the two of you) and he's hugging you like he's hugging his favorite stuffed animal. And although your oxygen might get cut off for a little while, you're okay with it.

'Cute' is when he's laying in the weirdest position you have ever seen. Not at all graceful like his moments when he's awake. When he's mumbling incoherent things in his sleep - like his daily schedule or what he'd like to eat for breakfast. It's when he's singing off-key in his sleep, muttering random sounds when he doesn't know the next word. When he's waking up in the morning, his eyes still filled with sleep and his hand is wandering about - searching for a certain warmth next to him.

It's when he's laying on his back, reading a book on the floor, and your fingers are playing with his hair while you're trying to understand what he's reading. 'Cute' is when he makes a face because you read a complicated sentence wrong and he swats your hand away from his hair. When he's threatening to bite you to death if you touch him again. '...Cute' is when you're silently looking at his book as he continues reading and he's reaching back and touching your hair. When you then read another sentence incorrectly - yet again - and he's tapping your forehead lightly with the book.

'Cute' is when he's napping after reading his book, his body all curled up next to yours. When his breathing is even and your fingers are in his hair.

'Cute' is when you're making him wear your favorite your apron with pictures of Doraemon on it and getting him to cook just because you think he'll look cute in that apron.

It's when he's helping you study for your final exams because he's threatening to throw you off the roof of Namimori with guarantee of _not_ surviving it like last time if you don't pass. It's when you're kinda tried of him hitting your hand with his ruler - even if you find it kinda sexy that he's wearing glasses and sitting on the table... and hitting you - and you're pulling him into your lap, telling him you think _like this_ is easier to study.

It's when he doesn't say anything back and just tell you that he's going to teach you an easier way to do this formula. When he's writing on one part of the paper and you're - supposedly writing it next to him to get familiar with it - writing 'I like you' with a small heart _far too close _to his personal writing space.

'Cute' is when studying time is over and he's straddling you, unbuttoning your shirt at an amazing speed and you get a nice view of his cute butt. When he's whispering such dirty words _so dangerously_ from that delicate mouth of his. When your hand is creeping under his skin and his hands are squeezing your shoulders. When you're tearing his clothes apart and he's gasping lightly - not wanting you to hear his voice. It's when you're tearing his hand away from his mouth, pushing him onto the table, and he's gasping even louder. And his cheeks are flushed a deep color and his eyes are squeezed shut, and he's screaming your name.

... But you think that's more on him being 'sexy.'

**Waiting**

It didn't matter what kind of stupid things he did. Whether it be almost _burning_ the apartment down while he's trying to put out a small fire because he's frustrated that he left the stove on too long. But those are just cute things - not stupid things. Like his small habit of forgetting to turn off the lights in the bathroom when he leaves. When he's too tired to actually turn off the faucet as he's washing his face. But it's when he comes home all scratched up and tired, with blood that wasn't his splattered all over his clean suit that he liked to keep clean - that you really worry for him.

'...I'm home.' And you find yourself fussing about his carelessness quietly (in your mind). Because you knew that if it was you in that position, Kyouya would always be there with his I'm-not-amused look in his eyes and would be ready to scold you for tracking blood and mud and whatever else into your apartment. Regardless if you were unconscious and probably bleeding to death. (While tending to you, of course...)

But even if his legs were all worn out and about to give weight to the sudden drop of gravity - even if he just _barely_ got to the front steps - it didn't matter how far he pushed himself. Even if you were hella scared for him more than he is for himself - or how scratched up and injured he was - you're just happy that he's home. That he's okay. That he's finally come back to you. And at times like this, you would be there. Waiting. To pick him up and kiss his unexpectedly clean hair, whispering, 'Welcome home.'

Musing with the idea that he keeps that certain part clean despite getting dirty all over just so you could be able to kiss him.

**Whispers**

It's when you're sitting back-to-back on the rooftop, overlooking Namimori, while leaning against one another as you stare up at the clear sunless sky - that you feel the most content. It's the way both your hands are laying on the side, merely _inches_ away from one another - that you feel that overwhelming warmth that is both suffocating and calming. It's the way you're comfortable with the silence, the smell of the summer grass in the air - his hair tickling the nape and side of your neck.

It's the way the gentle summer breeze whisper in your ear _'I like you' _- that you feel the most happy.

...

**Done? **Well, it flowed. In a way. I don't know. I feel like making a second part but in Kyouya's POV... or something. Comments? Concerns? Suggestions?

Do people like reading really _long_ stories/writing or really _short, sweet, and random_ stories/writing? I stick with the small font my comp provides me, so I sometimes go over the limit or whatever and don't know how far I write, and cutting some part out just sucks, cause it doesn't flow anymore...


	2. Fairytales

**A/N **: Kyouya's part; I don't think I wrote it right, but ...I'm sorry if this disappoints anyone. ); I tried my best. ...I tried my best! I had it on my comp already, I just couldn't find it cause it didn't have a proper title. ...And I had planned to upload it on Sat, but got caught up cause I was at the fair all day and was too freaking sore the next day to get out of bed. :D

...

**Glass**

"Skin is like glass, easy to break and hard to mend; hearts aren't because they can't be fixed."

_'But with the proper care, even the deepest would could be healed, right?'_

'Idiot, not everything can be fixed with silly band-aids and shiny stickers,' and you almost find yourself laughing at your own statement.

**Balloons**

7:10.

7:10 AM in the morning, _on a weekend_, and you were standing outside your apartment, dressed in those silly Hamtaro pajamas he bought you (that you actually like, but won't ever admit) because it was the only clean pair. At 7:10, as if you had nothing better to do. Because you're too busy standing there, ready to beat the shit out of the sun for suddenly rising, feeling very silly. You're not a morning person. With your pajamas not buttoned correctly at the top and hair all messed up. Probably tangles everywhere.

_Whoever is witnessing this will be tortured and nutured, _you decide.

All because you've received an _annoying_ text message from a certain _annoying_ person - _ordering_ you to go outside. And you know correctly that it wasn't your birthday. Wasn't any special holiday... (Not that you're aware of anyways.) And you're _just_ about at the homicidal peak when you sense him around.

But you're struck speechless when you're suddenly staring at a group of pink balloons - elevating from below and words of 'I love you' are written on all of them.

**Instant-Love **(Just add water)

You've always hated it.

The use of texting.

They were useless and bothersome. They were so goddamn _difficult_. Typing on that small keypad? Impossible. And you've always hated the fact that they took so long to get the correct letters right. (You don't understand how some people could stand this...) You absolutely _reject_ the use of 'texting.' It was better getting the message clearer through voice-to-voice.

...The threat came clearer that way, right?

So it was no shock when you flatly rejected him when he asked for your e-mail address. But he was persistent - going to great measures as to _bribe_ you. No sex - _for one week_? You had a limit. But you think the exchange is tolerable enough when you're sitting bored in your office, waiting for the day to end and you feel a small vibration in your pocket - and pictures of him changing in the lockers' room are slowly flooding to your phone.

(And you secretly save all this, but... you'll never tell him that.)

**Shorts**

Was this considered a date...?

You glare at the patch of grass at your feet. 'The grass isn't even real,' you tell him. He just laughs and attempts to take off your jacket. You let him, only because he's letting you hold that aluminum bat in exchange... Today, specifically, he had told you he was going to take you somewhere. Coincidentally, also the hottest day of the year. And you would've _killed _him because he was taking you to a place where there were people, but he tells you it was okay. Not many people go there. And even if they did, _you_ could probably beat them off with the bat.

But that's not what you're worried about.

It's also not the fact that _you_ had to wear a _loose_ t-shirt and _shorts_. No, you're not at all worried about that. It's the fact that _he_ had to wear a _loose_ shirt and _shorts_ that you're bothered over. And since there were people going to be there, and people you probably couldn't avoid while walking - they would be looking. At _him_. You feel your fingers twitch around the rim of the bat.

You think you're going to have fun with this...

But it's when he's behind you, hovering over your smaller body, his large hands topping yours as he's guiding you the proper way to swing when the ball comes from the machine - the way you could smell his distinct smell past the grass and outdoors smell - that you forget about seriously beating the image of _him_ in _shorts_ out of some random people.

**Milk**

He tells you that you remind him of a cat.

The way you would pop out at unexpected times, always sneaky - always so quiet. Graceful, like the way you walk - the way a cat can balance for so long on a small beam. Your quiet personality, not liking noise - the way you eye are slanted, reminding you of the way a cat smiles - so dark, so mysterious. The way you eyes always seem like they're filled with boredom. He then becomes side-tracked and you're dozing off and you think you hear him say something about your sleeping habits...

How you always like to nap in strange places, in the open rooftop or when you're laying on your windowsill - arms dangling off dangerously. The way your eyes would widen in fascination when something interests you. Like when a cat is given a new chew toy.

But you tell him he's an idiot.

That in _no way_ were you alike to that of a _cat_.

Because if _anyone_ were to be a cat, it was _him_.

You've always found that it was odd that he always ordered milk whenever you were out, at a gathering, or he's over at your house and he's asking if you have any milk in the fridge. Why in the world would _you_ have _milk_? It had a weird taste and left a weird feeling in your mouth. 'Milk makes you bigger and stronger, ...Kyouya,' he would always say. But the way he's almost biting his lip and giving you this unreadable _look_ tells you that he doesn't entirely mean what he says; as if there was some hidden message _you_ didn't know.

But maybe it's when you're on all fours, crawling over to him, licking the spilled milk off his hand, when his breath comes to a hitch, 'See, you really... are like a cat...'

-the way his breathing somewhat becomes more labored, and when you're staring up straight at him, your tongue is going in between his fingers and engulfing them into your mouth - 'Meow.' - that you can't help but feel that you truly _were_ like a cat.

...In some way or another.

**His Most Favorite**

You won't deny it.

Yamamoto Takeshi was a looker. Even _you_ knew that. Though, of course, you would never tell. But even someone _stupid_ could see that the baseball idiot wasn't an 'average looking guy who just loves baseball.' And on top of that, he had a strong build too. _Because there was more to him than just some average 'I breathe baseball,'- idiot._ It was the reason why he was so popular. With the girls _and_ guys.

So why doesn't he date anyone?

Like that girl from the Arts and Crafts Committee or one of the many ones that crowd around him all the time. He's even told you at times that some of them would make great wives one day. But you don't pay too much attention to it. Though you do wonder why he would all reject them, telling them that he was actually in love at the moment - and his eyes would go to where you were leaning against a hidden corridor - and he would suddenly knock off the seriousness when he half-lie/half-agree when the girl asked if it was baseball, wondering who it was your favorite is.

But _you're_ smart enough to know that answer wasn't all the truth.

Because it's when he's pressing his forehead against your, his hands holding your cheeks and he's whispering to you that you look pretty today, his lips _inches_ away - that you know just who his _most favorite_ is.

**Smile**

Your hair and clothes are getting soaked. But you don't care. They will dry, eventually. That was just how it was; wet things eventually dry up. They might shrink at some inconvenience, but... they dry. Your skin is cold from the rain and you're confused to whether or not you're blinking past the rain in your eyes - or the tears that are gathering.

But that's okay.

It was raining. No one can tell. Heck, if _you_ can't tell, it wasn't like anyone could...

_'Rain and cloud don't belong together_,_' _

How many times has that line ran through your head? How many times has it tugged at your heart, pulling and crushing it? You tilt your head back and you almost force a laugh. Isn't it strange, you're able to laugh. But at a time like this - your first laugh is directed to yourself. Because you're so stupid, so idiotic - to fall for someone like that.

'Tch.'

_'You two are just so different.' _The way the dark skies pulled the clouds swollen with rain bothered you. Something about it makes you want to hate it. 'Sprouting shit about opposite attract...' You want to kill whoever said that.

But that was just silly. (But it _was_ true. You two are _too_ different...) You collapse into a small mess in the puddle of rainwater - or tears - that had covered the main streets. And you think the cold rain falling on your face like piercing needles feel nice. Almost refreshing. But it's not true; only partly. It's the fact that your eyes are deceiving you, throwing images of _him _in your head as you watch the rain fall on you. The way he was surrounded by people - of pretty girls from your school - smiling so childishly. That soothing smile - the one you kinda hated and liked - the distraction that eases the shooting pain.

...And you suddenly remember the way he calls your name. That spark of excitement in his eyes when you look up at him when he's spent a while trying to catch your attention. His arms that were always wide opened when he sees you - the way they feel when they're around you...

_Because you knew that this was the closest you will ever be to him._

It feels nice. The way the rain was falling on your already numb skin. ...Almost comforting. Almost welcoming you. Telling you to let everything go. You think you're finally losing it.

...But maybe it's the way that the rain was whispering your name_,_ _'-Kyouya.', _and embracing you - that you think you're still so sane.

**Delicate**

He tells you that you look delicate, among the many other stupid things he tell you. He calls you _'a porcelain doll'_ because of your unnatural paleness that didn't seem to look sickly, such a great contrast against your dark hair and eyes.

He thinks you look _perfect_.

Almost like those dolls that are kept behind glass containers - meant to be looked at, not touched. 'Because they're made of glass, I think, and they're usually very pretty so the owner probably doesn't want anyone to touch it.' And you wonder what he's thinking inside - 'And you're the same, but the only difference is, you're _mine_.' - when he holds you each night...

As if someone would steal you away.

...As if you would disappear.

**Snow White**

Pathetic.

Because this is just pathetic. Because _you_ are pathetic. There's blood - blood everywhere. Around you, on you - your clothes, your face, your hair. Near you - and you think the warm puddle you're laying in is your own blood. _'Isn't that funny, even someone as cold as you have warm blood.' _Your body hurts and your lungs ache every time you breathed. So, you guess this is a small sign that you're about to die - whether you like it or not, right?

You think that it's funny - and you almost laugh. _Almost_. If it wasn't for that piercing feeling of having a million needles being simultaneously stabbed into your lungs - you think you would've muster enough as a soft chuckle. But it won't get you any further. You don't believe that you'll leave this place. Actually, the cold floor was alright - lying in your own puddle of blood - you've always imagined dying in a much worse way.

So, this was okay enough. It's just that wet, _icky_ feeling of blood spilling from your probably semi-split head that you don't like. Your hair is no longer clean. And you don't like that. And you know you're _really_ going to die when you've become delirious enough to worry about your _hair_, of all things, while you're bleeding to death. And your body's gone numb.

You can barely open your eyes. You hold back a small gasp when you feel the blood pushing up - wanting to get out. That wouldn't be a good idea. It'll only make your face even dirtier... Something wet and sticky, something very hot, falls from your cheeks. And you think you're crying. But you refuse to admit this. 'It's just blood,' nothing to get all worked up over.

You try to take a deep breath. Your vision was fading.

Haha, you wonder what kind of reaction he'll have when he finds you. And you feel this small pain in your chest. Somehow it just gathered there. But it's probably just your broken ribs acting up. That was why you hated your body. Never being able to keep up with you. You wonder why it was so _weak_. So very weak, compared to who you were. 'The human body... really was a wonder and at time a useless thing.'

_'Hmm, how about I tell you the story about Snow White tonight?' _

Because you're probably going to die, and all you're thinking about is that idiot. That idiot who would break down and cry for you if he ever saw you in this mess. Why was it the only thing that registered when you're dying was _him_? Bleeding all over, and yet, you're thinking of the time he told you those silly fairy tales. You think it's pathetic. The way your mind seem to play with you. That's why you hate your body.

It never listens to you.

_'It's said that she was born 'with skin white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony.'_

'...Whatever,' but you still muster enough strength to turn your neck, somewhat glad it hadn't broken yet, and wipe whatever blood you could wipe off your face with an area of your shirt. There was blood there too, but you think it's dried enough to wipe off the blood on your face.

_'You remind me a lot of Snow White, you know-'_

Sadly, you think you accomplished that.

And as you're falling back to the original position, you close your eyes when it starts to rain. 'The requiem rain... what a nice time,' you don't really mean it. But you're still glad that the blood was being washed off from your face. Your lip curve into a small smile. He'll probably won't cry as much when he sees you now. At least your face would be clean. So he could recognize you, right? Haha, but then again... that wouldn't be nice. Because you were lying in your own blood that was only becoming a bigger pool.

_Fate is just cruel like that._

And he would probably be kissing you or whatever and probably try and pull your broken body to him, sobbing on you. 'How dirty....' You don't think you want his tears and maybe snot all over your bloodied clothes. You're really going to miss it, you start to think. The chance to call him an idiot when he's crying over you, dirtying your clothes even more.

Your eyes slip close and you try not to smile too much past the somewhat split lip you had. '...Because _my skin is as white as snow, lips red as blood, and hair black as ebony_, huh.'

_Fate is just so cruel_.

'...But I think you're more beautiful,' you can hear the faintest whisper and feel the lightest touch in contrast to the cold pouring rain.

And you wonder if that's what Snow White felt... when she awoke in her glass coffin.

**Lullaby**

It's not like you can't sleep alone.

You've done it years and years before. Ever since you moved out of your parents' home. Even _when_ you were living with them. And it didn't matter how many times that night you were twisting and turning in bed - your body feeling colder than usual. And you shut your eyes tight.

Because you're alright.

But laying in the still darkness, your hand slowly creeps towards the object you desire and you're pulling the stuffed animal to your chest. The one he gave you. And you're holding it close.

_...Because it smells just like him_.

**Angel **

Sometimes he would call you [his Angel] when you're in the confinements of your bedroom. When the morning light is slowly creeping inbetween the shades and making the white room become even _brighter_. Like some place you'd imagine Heaven to be - bright. _Very_ bright.

But you know you're no angel.

But it's when he's kissing your body and touching you as you're gasping under him, messing up the neat white sheets - your hands all tangled up in his hair - that you think _this_ is the closest you will _ever be_ to 'heaven.'

**Proposal**

'What makes you think I'd accept your proposal?' You cross your arms and gave him an almost defiant look. This situation is familiar, your mind can't help but think. _The Bucking Horse. _He had done almost the same thing. Only, you were at some fancy cafe with weird music and non-traditional Japanese food.

And now, you were leaning against the white counter of your kitchen and he wasn't giving you that love sick expression the Bucking Horse gave you. No, this expression was different. The whole atmosphere was. It didn't give a romantic air to it at all. But then again, you really weren't much of a romantic person. But his eyes. His eyes held something that you couldn't identify. An expression he didn't hold on a regular basis. His eyes were filled with something you can't place your finger on, his lips in an almost smirk as he place his hands on either sides of you.

'I didn't propose to you...' His voice softens. He takes your hand and delicately holds it - like you're some princess - and press a light kiss to your forehead. 'I told you I was going to marry you.'

...

**Lol. **Sorry, if I disappoint. -sad face-

I saw a Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus airbrush... painting, picture thingy? on one of the rides and I wanted _so_ badly to draw a mustache on her! But **no one** had a freaking sharpie! D:


End file.
